


Written on a risque Belle Epoque postcard...

by AnnieMacDonald



Category: Doctor Who, Sarah Jane Adventures
Genre: Epistolary, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieMacDonald/pseuds/AnnieMacDonald





	Written on a risque Belle Epoque postcard...

_Written on a risque Belle Epoque postcard, attached to a bottle of home-made rhubarb and ginger cordial from a bring and buy sale, and forwarded, via a Judoon victim support officer, to the nearest interstellar Parcel Collection Office._

I'm fine, since you ask. ("I'm always fine.") Minor dizziness now and again, the experience always knocks me off balance. But is there any hope of any power you know with intergalactic clout making a formal representation to the Shadow Proclamation that neither it, nor the bloody Judoon, are allowed direct, hoof thumping on ground, jurisdiction on Earth? That's the second time I've encountered its/their lack of subtlety, although the collateral damage was minor this time. All very well it/them dumping the Royal Hope Hospital back into that hole in Lambeth, but they didn't reconnect sewers/water / power supply lines/ telecommunications, and neither the mayorial decrees of Ken Livingstone nor Boris Johnson have ever motivated a municipal catch-up, notwithstanding that all householders in London boroughs have been paying the Alien Damage Surcharge on top of their council taxes for five years now. Trivial as the stars pale and grow cold, of course, but we have to deal with the here and now as well as cosmic atrophy. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I've twice recently heard ominous auguries -- or, with the Androvax, felt them in our mutual head. I don't know why, but I'm sure the Trickster and his crew are still out there, and the Trickster wants you for rather more than a friendly conversation. Just passing on a slight but definite unease.

Only one of the offworld waifs and strays is still in the house, by the way; I think he's on the equivalent of a gap year, and doesn't want to go home until his responsibles actually come to fetch him. Clyde winces at his taste in music, and he's not overmobile (as is to be expected with a monopod lifeform) but he's a really good au pair. He learned to bake and iron, and having read his way through all, and I mean all, Eng Lit, French ditto, and most of Russian, he's been coaching Luke, who may be genius level at maths but regards a poem with an edge of panic.

Just leave the key behind the purplish, loose, bottom brick of the frame that supports the back-garden door. It's as obvious and as effective as above the "b" in "police box". Fraulein Herschel's notebook you can keep, she would have loved to meet you — you might want to drop in on her some day, perhaps during her early middle age, although she was great company to the end. respects, sj


End file.
